RICH WITH PRACTICALLY NOTHING

A mechanic pulled up next to me just when my car broke down.

A friend walked into the garage just when I needed a ride.

A visitor picked up some medications for me just when I ran out.

Are these all coincidences?

I don’t think so.

But you may think otherwise.

We can see such opportunities as serendipity, or as karma, or as God’s favor.

 The Psalmist tells us that our own efforts only go so far, and that we do need God’s favor and help:

“Unless the Lord builds the city, the workmen labor in vain.  Unless the Lord watches over the city, the guards stand watch in vain.”

It’s humbling.

We Americans love our independence.  We love action.

We have to be intentional about trust in God.  But if we do.  Even if we only give him a little bit of faith.

He multiplies it.

2 becomes 4.

4 becomes 8, or 16, or 48.

And 2 fish become 5,000.

Prayer:

“Jesus, when my faith is small, don’t let me forget what you can do with practically nothing.”

(Prayer quoted from Cynthia Ruchti in Mornings with Jesus.)

A Series of FORTUNATE Events

My car shook with a “clunk clunk” sound in the middle of afternoon traffic on Highway 183 South. But following me in her car was my co-worker, Cynthia.  I managed to pull over and park, and minutes later Cynthia pulled up next to me.  Just as I lifted the hood and was wondering whether to call for a tow, a man in a truck pulled up and offered to help.  He spoke very knowledgeably and as I walked over to him I saw that the insignia on his shirt read Arbor Car Wash and Lube.  As it turned out, amazingly, all I had to do was drive a few feet to the Arbor garage parking lot to get my car checked.  Within a few minutes, a kind mechanic at that shop had run a diagnostic and told me the error codes.  No charge.  Soon I was on my way and Cynthia continued on to do her errand.

The second fortunate event was the next morning when I pulled into the Firestone Station to have my car serviced.  I was there the first thing early, and the service manager offered to do a free routine check and to use the information given me by the other mechanic to diagnose the car – saving me $100.  As I waited in the customer lounge, I was shocked to see my good friend Elizabeth, whom I had not seen in years, walk in the door.  We embraced with enthusiasm, and then spent the next 45 minutes pleasantly catching up and encouraging one another in the Lord.   When her car was ready but mine was not, she offered to drive me home.

Back at home, I made some breakfast and had only taken a few bites when my office manager, Karen, pulled up in front of my house.  She had kindly offered to take me to work.  I thought I might as well get some hours in at the office, and then  later call someone else to take me back to my car.

That’s when the third fortunate event occurred.  As we drove toward Hwy 183 North, we had not gone more than a couple miles when my cell phone rang.  It was the Firestone manager, and my car was ready for pick up.  So quickly!  Then just up ahead  of us, I caught a glimpse of the Firestone Station, so I quickly shouted to Karen, “Turn right here, turn here!”  She was able, instead of veering left onto the entrance ramp of Highway 183, to make a quick right turn, and drop me right back at the door of the Firestone Station. 

This was a bit too much for me.  I was dazzled by the split-second orchestration of each event since the previous day.  It was as if an invisible hand had moved the chess pieces of all our lives around in perfect harmony – meeting my needs perfectly and even blessing a few others along the way.  I hadn’t prayed, except a quick “Help me” when my car started to shake, yet it was as if God was right there in the midst of us.

I did have to spend a significant sum for the repair, which I had not been anticipating, but I got in my full day of work on both days – didn’t miss a beat.  And I suspect that the God who orchestrated all of these fortunate events, will also be able to handle my repair bill.

For Holocaust Remembrance Day – MY VISIT TO DACHAU

In 1975 I was travelling in Germany, and I went to visit Dachau Concentration Camp.  Back in those days no one said stupid things about the Holocaust having been a media invention.  We knew it had been shockingly real – our parents had fought a war not only to protect our nation but to liberate peoples being conquered and exterminated by the Nazis.

So, I went out of curiosity, but the type of curiosity mingled with deep reverence and even dread.  It’s somewhat near the feeling you have when you attend a funeral.  Unpleasant, but important.

There was still barbed wire around the compound, and the heavy iron-grilled gate was still in place, although of course it was open and we could enter and leave at will.  Still, there was a slightly creepy sense upon entering – knowing the stories of horror told by many of the survivors of this and similar camps.  One building had been made into a museum, and there were long hallways of pictures, and they included the entire history of the rise of Nazism, Hitler, the camps, the war, and finally the liberation.  People filed silently and somberly along these hallways, reading, staring, riveted by an invisible force that wouldn’t let them look away, drawn like moths toward a dangerous flame. Disturbing. It’s the kind of experience where you ask yourself: “Why am I doing this to myself?”  But you already know the answer.

The pictures were all within arm’s reach – this was no ordinary museum. The most unexpected – shocking – part of this for me was that in every picture where Hitler was depicted, his face had been gouged out, smudged and spit upon.  You could feel the hatred, disgust and despair emanating from those eviscerated photos.

Outside this building we could enter one other building that was still standing.  This was one of the many barracks.  It was a long rather thin wooden structure, unadorned with any decoration or color that would lift the mind or spirit.  Inside were row upon row of plain wooden bunks, hundreds of them.  There was no privacy, no personal space, no comfort, no hint of individuality.  It was depressing just to stand there.  I quickly left.

The last part of the experience was the only redemption.  At the back of the lot, three small open-air chapels had been built, one each for Protestant, Catholic, and Jew.  This was a place to stand and reflect that this evil era had come to an end, and that good had triumphed.  It was a place to be grateful to God.